


Under the Dornish Sun

by LadyTP



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/pseuds/LadyTP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor meet again in Dorne. Both have changed, and it takes a while before they understand each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lonely Traveller

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Comment Fic Meme No. 2 on sansa-sandor.livejournal.com from the_moonmoth's prompt: "They meet again, but neither of them is quite as the other remembers. Lots of friction as they get to know each other again."  
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his "A Song of Ice and Fire" books and I own none of this.
> 
> **Further notes:**
> 
> Does the world need another SanSan fanfic? Probably not. Do we, ordinary people living our ordinary life, need an outlet to our creative urges – an enjoyment and satisfaction we can achieve from twirling our stories of the events and characters we love? Hell yeah! 
> 
> If this means that these stories will then be heaved upon the unsuspecting world instead of shoving them to the proverbial desk drawer – well, we have only the world-wide-web to blame for… 
> 
> I have thoroughly enjoyed writing this and that in itself is enough for me…But of course this is not to say that if anyone else gets even the slightest enjoyment of this, that is all absolutely beautiful, amazing bonus…!
> 
>  **Authors Notes - "Second edition - after re-editing in February 2013":** I was shocked to re-read this and realise how bad the language was, after I have written a bit more after this first attempt under a tutelage of an excellent beta, wildsky. Hence I have re-edited this story in order to make it at least a bit more readable... It is still far away from perfect language-wise, but at least it is not such a horror as it originally was. The story itself hasn't changed...
> 
> Special thanks to babygap430, who commented on the language and prompted me to do this. You see, con-crit is good!!

**_Sansa_ **

Sansa felt hot wind blowing her hair back in a glorious veil of red as she drove her mount forward to catch her companions who were riding ahead, spread across the yellowed fields outside Sunspear.  She laughed, urging her small mare with high pitched shrieks of encouragement. The mare was small in size as all the famous sand steeds of Dorne, but made up for her lack of size with her speed and endurance. 

The group ahead of her consisted of four others; two women, one girl and one man, each strong, slim and at the height of their youth. They all rode sand steeds like Sansa’s and the fact they had been riding for half a day with hardly any rest did not show in either the riders or their mounts.

Finally Sansa reached the group which had slowed down, approaching the main road winding towards Threefold Gate all the way back from the Prince’s Pass.

“I would have caught you eventually! You just cheated by starting the race while I was still on the ground!” she shouted to the others, still beaming from the feeling of exhilaration the hard ride had raised in her.

“That’s what you think! We know better – you would have never caught up with us if we hadn’t slowed down,” grinned the girl. She had a lustrous black hair and black eyes and it was not difficult to see the resemblance to her famous father Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper.

“I am getting better, Elia. Remember I wasn’t born to the saddle as the rest of you.” Sansa rode forward trying to see why others had stopped.

A lonely figure was making his way up the road, riding a sturdy horse at a steady, slow pace. Nothing unusual in that, except for the fact that the man was dressed in a brown and dun robe with wide bell sleeves and a pointed cowl raised up on his head, indicating him as a brother of Faith. And his size – he was massive; tall and broad. Brothers of Seven didn’t often come to Dorne, and those who came were usually small and thin, on a spiritual quest. The man looked tired from the way how his wide shoulders were sagging. He was staring at the road ahead of him and only briefly raised his eyes to assess the group. They were too far way to see his features or he theirs, but obviously he came to the same conclusion as they did – that the others didn’t present an immediate danger – so he dropped his gaze and continued plodding along.

The oldest of the group, young man called Trysan, finally spoke. “We better go back to Sunspear. This traveller looks harmless enough, but maybe he has news from the other kingdoms. I suspect Prince Doran will want to see and interview him soon enough and I wouldn’t mind being there when it happens. “He turned his horse around and steered it towards the city, others following him still laughing and jesting with each other.

Trysan was a guard at Prince Doran’s court, charged to look after the wild daughters and cousins of the House Martell – and their ward. On this specific outing he and Sansa were joined by young Elia Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell and Ellaria Sand, Arianne Martell, the oldest daughter and heir of Prince Doran and their friend Narella Sand. Unexpectedly she was not offspring of Oberyn Martell, but that of another Dornish knight. Yet she was a good friend and companion of the daughters and the ward of House Martell just the same.

Sansa followed the group, throwing one more look at the lonely traveller. He reminded her of someone. _If I wouldn’t know better, there could be only one man of that size and build… but he is dead, has been dead for years._ For a moment her thoughts went back to those painful years at King’s Landing, where a man of enormous size and frightening face had been her unlikely defender.

**Sandor**

Sandor was weary and bone-tired and only the knowledge of the end of his journey approaching had kept him going for the last day. It had been a long trek from the Quiet Isle to Dorne, especially for one traveling alone with only a horse and not much money to spend at inns.

Finally he was at the reach of Sunspear. Only few more leagues to go and he would be at his destination. He saw a group of young riders further away, but although they had stopped to look at him, they didn’t look threatening and soon turned and galloped away. As they did so he thought he saw a flash of long red hair flowing behind one of them, and that brought to his mind painful memories of another head of red hair, from so many years ago.

 _Sansa Stark._ He had thought about her many times over the years since the night he had threatened her with a dagger, stolen a song and left her for the lions by running away like a coward. _Sansa Stark._ She had been his last conscious thought when he had laid dying by theTrident, ready to leave this world and contemplating his past deeds. So much he had done wrong, hardly anything right – not a good tally to consider at the end of his days.

That had been before the Elder Brother had found him and against his will nursed him back to life. It had not been easy; both his body and mind seemed to have refused to yield to the call of the living. It had taken infinite patience and dedication of the Elder Brother, but eventually he had started to heal. Body had been easier, despite of the slight limp that had lingered on for a long time – but healing his mind had been more difficult.

It had turned out to become an immense battle of wills; the Elder Brother determined to see what was good in him and encourage it, Sandor determined to hide it even deeper than it had ever been and show him how wrong he was if he thought that every soul had some redeemable features. His didn’t; his soul was black and scarred and terrible and beyond redemption.

Yet over the months and years the man’s insistence had started to pay off. Sandor had started think of his past life in a new light and had gradually started to see the links between his childhood and its traumas and the damaged human being he had become as the result. His loyalty to the Lannisters had only been a demonstration of his need to anchor himself to something firm, no matter how twisted or wrong it was. That need for attachment had fuelled his actions when he had obeyed Lord Tywin’s and Joffrey’s orders without a question, not caring who he hurt in the process or how wrong his actions were.  

Only the Elder Brother had ever spoken to him about morality and what was right and what was wrong – he himself had never considered things from that perspective. Over many quiet evenings they had had long discussions about morality and philosophy, and gradually Sandor started to see how his life had been guided by these principles even though he had never realised it. His hatred of duplicitous knights, scheming nobles and lies as well as his mixed-up feelings about the strong ruling over the weak – they had all been a manifestation of his mind trying to find sense in this world, but not having encouragement or guidance to find it.

He was still angry, and still embraced the quiet rage within him; the same rage that had sustained him for so many years when he had had nothing else to fall back on. But instead of his hatred being targeted to anyone and everyone around him, it found its natural target in the main cause for his pain, and for so many uncounted others; his brother Gregor Clegane. The other sentiment that slowly grew in him despite his resistance was the acknowledgment that his only way for redemption was by reparation. He needed to make good of the hurts he and his family had caused to their victims by offering them his services. But who would accept his remorse, who would believe in his sincerity?

**_Sansa_ **

Sansa was still immersed in the memories awakened by the sight of the tall traveller as they rode back to Sunspear. Those years seemed to be so far away – sometimes she could go for weeks without even thinking about that terrible time. She had been in Dorne as a Martell ward for over two years, sent there as a result of a stalemate between the Houses Lannister and Tyrell power play.

After Margaery Tyrell’s engagement to King Joffrey, House Tyrell ambitions had grown to rival those of the Lannisters. After the proposed marriage of Willas Tyrell to Lady Sansa Stark, the last remaining offspring of Lord Eddark Stark and the rightful heir of Winterfell, the Lannisters had thrown in their counter-proposal to marry her to Tyrion Lannister. Neither party agreed to the other party’s suggestion, so as a poor compromise they agreed to send her to Dorne with Oberyn Martell. She was to be guarded until a suitable match would be made later. The deal was also deemed to be a good way to make restitution demanded by the Martells for the murder of Elia Martell and her children. The head of Ser Gregor Clegane and the wardship of one of the most eligible maidens in the realm had been Oberyn Martell’s terms – and he had received them both, albeit only after his death.  

The arrangements were done in secrecy as there were many who believed Sansa to be guilty of Joffrey’s murder. Queen Cersei had been adamant that it would have to at least appear that she had been punished. So in the eyes of the world she had just disappeared from King’s Landing, not to be seen again. Some thought she had been sent to the black cells  of Red Keep, kept there for the rest of her life. Some though she had been quietly strangled and her body unceremoniously dumped to the sea. The most important thing for the Iron Throne had been not to look weak by giving in to the Martells. Sansa herself didn’t care – there was nobody to worry about her fate now that all her kin were dead, and all she had wanted had been to get away from King’s Landing.

When Sansa had first arrived to Sunspear she had still been a frightened young girl, unsure of what to expect in her new prison. She had been however soon won over by the warmth and passion of the Dornish court, presided over by cautious but just Prince Doran. As weeks turned to months and months to years, she had adapted to her new life. Initially she had been shocked to see how young maids at court and elsewhere behaved; so wild, so free – so _unconventional_ and different to the maids in other kingdoms. They could learn to use weapons as shown by Oberyn Martell’s daughters, the famous Sand Snakes. They could go about freely, they could ride, they could play, and sometimes they could even choose their own husbands – or lovers, as often as not, according to the whispers she heard. 

It had taken a while for the well-mannered young lady raised by septas to get over her reservations, but gradually Sansa had let go of her inhibitions and started to cherish Dornish life. She had learned how to ride and shoot a bow – and she had acquired the ability to laugh again. During the weeks spent at the Water Gardens, the palace of the Dornish rulers outside the capital, she discovered the joys of swimming and enjoyed the pools and fountains of crystal clear water dotted all over the palace grounds. She grew strong, she grew happy. Sunspear became her home like King’s Landing had never been.


	2. The Recognition

**_Sandor_ **

Outwardly Sandor’s life had adapted to the simple routine of the Quiet Isle; he worked hard as he had all his life, initially digging graves and helping in construction work around the island. After the faith militant raised its head, he become a sought after trainer for the Warrior’s Sons and Poor Fellows. Both of these tasks he undertook without complaining – in truth he relished the opportunity to wield the sword and lance again. He was good at it – he was _very_ good – and this time he didn’t actually have to kill anyone. That left him free to enjoy the elation of feeling his muscles obeying the orders of his mind even before he was aware of them himself. He got satisfaction from a fatigue only obtained after a hard day of blocking, barring and lunging in the dance as old as the first men who fought with each other.

He stayed on the Quiet Isle and over the years thought that to probably be where he would eventually die. From an old age he hoped, rather than in a battle as he had in his previous life been sure of. Initially he had entertained thoughts of finding Gregor and demanding him to answer for his crimes against him and the humanity – but his struggle to find peace had stayed him. When the news of Gregor’s death as a result of the duel with Oberyn Martell eventually reached the Quiet Isle, he was disappointed but also relieved.

Only when he heard the disturbing rumours of the new mountain, Ser Robert Strong, emerging in the South, he had grown disquiet again. _Is Gregor truly dead? Is it possible that somehow he would have been brought back?_ Those thoughts niggled at him and didn’t leave him in peace.

Eventually he confided them to the Elder Brother.

“He is dead. There is a score of witnesses to prove that – his screams of agony were heard everywhere in the Red Keep for days until they quietened down as the poison in the Red Viper’s spear did its task,” soothed the Elder Brother.

“His screams may have quieted – but was it because of his death or because of his resurrection?!” Sandor demanded, striding restlessly across the floor of the Elders Brother’s sparse chamber. His eyes shone and the burned side of his mouth twitched.

“His head was sent to Dorne as a gift from the Lannisters to the Martells,” continued the Elder Brother. “It was said to be the largest skull ever seen. It couldn’t have been anyone else’s but the Mountain’s.”

“Is the size proof enough?” snarled Sandor. “Giants in the North are said to have big skulls, mayhap the Lannisters had one of those to send to Dorne.”

“It is a shame that they boiled his skull to a bone, as otherwise his likeness might have revealed the truth even to those most doubtful,” the Elder Brother sighed.

Something was tugging at the back of Sandor’s mind. _Gregor’s likeness…_ Then it came to him.

“Bloody hells! I could recognise him even from his skull! When he was young, he was hurt on a head in one of his first melees. I saw our maester cleaning his wound and saw how his right temple had caved in, the bone of his skull being crushed inwards. The maester tidied up the wound and in time it healed, but the dint in his head remained.”

Sandor was staring ahead with unseeing eyes, furrowing his brow.

“Some time after that his headaches started. They made him mad and removed any qualms he might have had before. It was not long after that when he shoved my face into the coals.”

He winced at the memory and wondered if the two events were connected. But no matter, it had been a long time ago and much had happened since then.

“If I could just see the skull I could tell whether it is Gregor’s or not. If it is, that would mean that he truly is dead and is now suffering in seven hells as he should.”

Sandor had left the Elder Brother then but the thought remained. Gradually it niggled away in his mind and grew until he could not ignore it anymore. The more he thought about it, the more he started to see in it another light as well. Confirming the skull’s origin would allow him to offer his service to a house his family had hurt. If he could make his way to Dorne to see it, and serve the Martells, he could perhaps find that last missing piece for his peace of mind he had not yet found on the Quiet Isle.

He had not personally hurt the Martells, that much was true. But none of those whom he had, were around to receive his remorse. He had not been directly involved in House Targaryen demise, having just started to learn skills of war as a young boy. The other wars and battles he had fought in had had too many different opponents, and he had killed evenly across all families across the Lannister enemies in the Riverlands or Iron Islands.

There had been House Stark, of course. In that, his hands were certainly dirty. He had been there when Lord Eddard had been arrested and when his daughter – _Sansa Stark –_ had been captured by Queen Cersei. He had been there when Lord Eddard has lost his head. _And I was there when King Joffrey got you beaten, little bird. And I just stood there in my bloody white cloak and did nothing. And when I did something, it was only with a drunken notion of taking you by force and threatening you with a dagger to give me a song. And then I left you to the lions._

He wished there was a way he could compensate his bad deeds for them, but there were no more Starks in the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Eddard had been executed, his sons Bran and Rickon murdered by the Ironborn, his wife Lady Catelyn and eldest son Robb murdered by the Freys… His daughter Arya lost, probably by now long dead. How long would a lone young girl have survived in the Riverlands at the time of war, even one as fierce as the little wolf-bitch? And his other daughter Sansa lost some time after the death of King Joffrey, likely also killed by the Lannisters.

Sansa had been suspected of poisoning Joffrey, he knew. If that was the case, Queen Cersei’s wrath would have had no bounds. She had always been the lioness protecting her cubs, and if anyone had hurt her eldest...he or she was as good as dead. Sandor was sure that Sansa hadn’t done it. Such a gentle lady, full of courtesies and good manners, offering her sympathy even to a gnarled hound as he was. She could not be a murderess, at least not as cunning as required for poisoning someone to death. He wondered sometimes where her body lay; had her executioners had the decency to bury it according to the rites of the Seven. Had the silent sisters prepared her frail young body, crushed before its bloom, and laid it to rest in a quiet place. Or had it been thrown to the sea to be eaten by fish, nibbling on her face and Tully blue eyes until they were no more…

But that was no good – there was nothing he could do to the Wolfs anymore, no good nor bad. All he could do was to follow his new resolution that would take him to Dorne.

**_Sansa_ **

The riders finally reached the city and the palace, basking in the last rays of the sun colouring everything in bright orange-pink hues, making it look like a city of dreams. Sansa hurried to her rooms to get ready for the evening meal, enjoyed as usually in the Great Hall. She undressed quickly, removing the loose trousers and the tunic she had worn earlier, and washed herself in a basin the maids had brought. Over the years her face and long limbs had attained the brown colour so typical for true Dornish – although not easily. First she had had bouts of terrible red dash as her delicate northern skin had reacted to the unexpected glare of the sun; then her skin had peeled off in thin layers and finally, after being instructed in the use of extracts from plants to cover her skin, it had settled down and gradually but surely developed its deep brown hue. Only in the areas covered by her smallclothes her skin retained its original colour. She had stubbornly refused to cavort naked in the springs like younger children did, covering her modesty with undergarments.

After she was ready and dressed in a simple dress of dark grey linen, she made her way to the Great Hall where Prince Doran and his court were already present. As the ward of the Martells and a highborn lady she was seated at the top dais, only few chairs down from Prince Doran and Princess Arianna.

Just as she settled down the large double doors of the hall opened and a guard walked in. The hush descended on the crowd who had been chatting and laughing in anticipation of the evening meal.

“A brother of the Seven to see you, my prince,” the guard announced with pomp and ceremony. “He has just arrived from the Riverlands.” He turned around and gestured the tall figure looming at the door to enter.

The man did so and walked straight towards Prince Doran sitting at the middle of the dais. His cowl was still raised, but as he stopped in front of the prince, he lifted his large hands and drew it down. The gesture revealed his long dark hair and sharp features adorned with a hooked nose and piercing grey eyes. These were secondary though, as everyone’s eyes were drawn to terrible scars covering one side of his face. After the initial sounds of shocked surprise from the crowd, the silence that ensued was so thick it could have been cut with a knife.

 _The Hound!_ thought Sansa, raising her hand to her throat and releasing an involuntary gasp . _It can’t be!_ For a moment she felt like fainting.

The dark grey eyes scanned the table moving from one person to another until they stopped at her. She saw and felt her own shock being reciprocated in him by the way how his eyes widened and expression changed to one of shock, bewilderment and daze.

 


	3. His Welcome

**_Sandor_ **

The Elder Brother had eventually agreed to Sandor’s plan and equipped him with what he needed; a horse, supplies, some coin – and his blessing. And so he had left the Quiet Isle, his home for years.

At last he was in his destination, tired and weary but finally there. Once he had entered the palace and asked for the audience with Prince Doran, it had taken surprisingly short time before he had been escorted to the hall. He had anticipated having to wait for several days before being able to see the ruler, but in Dorne things didn’t seem to be as they had been in King‘s Landing.

He knew he would not be welcomed and that his life could be in grave danger as soon as they would recognise him as the brother of Gregor Clegane, the murderer of their sweet princess Elia. Yet he had no choice but to go on and step into the great hall full of expectant courtiers. He saw a sea of faces turning to face him as he entered, some curious, some oblivious. On the dais at the back of the hall were the dignitaries, Prince Doran and his closest family and advisers.

Sandor walked ahead, the crowd parting in front of him. Prince Doran was watching him approach. Sandor had recognised him immediately, not only from his prominent position at the centre of that great hall and great table, but also from his grey hair, stooped countenance and the rolling chair he was sitting in. Sandor stopped in front of the dais knowing that the moment had come when he had to reveal himself.

He felt rather than heard the muffled, shocked exclamations followed by a complete silence. He could have heard the needle drop, so quiet the great hall was. He lifted his head higher and drew his broad shoulders back as if in defiance of them all, while scanning the faces on the dais.

Then he saw her. _The little bird! No, it could not be...this woman is older, stronger, of darker complexion..._ He couldn’t decide whether he was just confusing some Dornish woman with the girl he had seen in his dreams for so many times. But as he saw the shock on that face, the sharp breath she took and the stare of utter disbelief... _It is her!_

Suddenly what he was going to say to Prince Doran didn’t seem so important after all.

**_Sansa_ **

Sansa saw him reeling from the shock of seeing her, but immediately collecting himself together with a visible shudder. She hoped she would have been able to do the same, but all she could do was to stare at him with mouth agape, her mind racing. _He must have not known I am here – mayhap he even believed me to be dead? Why would he be so shocked otherwise? What is he doing here, doesn’t he know his life is now forfeit – the Martells have no love for the Cleganes!_

Sansa felt frantic tugging on her elbow. Myrcella Lannister leaned towards her from the chair next to hers.

“Is that really the Hound? What is he doing here you think?” her cheeks were flushed as she addressed Sansa under her breath.

“It certainly looks like him – who else could have that same appearance?” Sansa looked at him again, his face, his body, those distinctive scars.

“I remember him from when I was just a child. He had just joined Joffrey’s guard and Tommen and I still played together with Joffrey. He sometimes lifted me off the ground and twirled me in the air so I felt like flying…but mother didn’t like it so he stopped.” Myrcella’s face scrunched as she looked back to her childhood, to the carefree days when life was still orderly and she was still the much loved little princess Baratheon in King’s Landing. She had grown to a beautiful young lady with golden hair and emerald green eyes, like her mothers, and was now much loved in Dorne. Her betrothal to Trystane Martell still held, as did their friendship, and they were expected to get married as soon as they both were old enough.

“He served in Joffrey’s Kingsguard as well. Did he ever…”Myrcella glanced down and didn’t finish the sentence. Over the years Sansa had shared with her the story of her life as a betrothed to King Joffrey, so she knew well how her brother had treated Sansa. She had not been aware of it at the time though, and had expressed many times her sorrow of the way how things had turned out. Sansa and Myrcella were good friends and Sansa didn’t bear any grudges against her. Surely she was not to blame for her evil brother’s wrongdoings – _just like Sandor could not be held responsible for Gregor’s._

“No, he never hit me, if that was what you were going to ask.” Sansa patted Myrcella’s hand gently.

“On the contrary; he helped me more often than not. Once he lied on my behalf to Joffrey to save me from his wrath. Another time he prevented me from doing an enormous mistake by literally stepping in front of me and stopping me. And when Joffrey got Ser Boros to strip me half-naked, he was the one who gave me his cloak to cover myself.” Sansa looked ahead with glazed eyes, being transported back to those horrible times.

“He saved me from the crowd during the riots after you left for Dorne. I could have been killed and most certainly raped without him.”

“Oh, he must have a good heart then, to have done all those things to you. You know, I never thought he was as bad as Ser Gregor,” Myrcella confessed, still squeezing her hand.

**_Sandor_ **

Prince Doran allowed no surprise to show in his face, in control of the situation as always.

“The Hound, Sandor Clegane. For what do we own this honour? You are here to revenge your brother?” his voice was steady as he addressed the tall man.

“Prince Doran. The Hound is no more, it is Sandor Clegane standing in front of you.”  Sandor rasped. “And no, I am not here to seek vengeance but quite the contrary – I am here to seek absolution. And to witness with my own eyes that Gregor Clegane is truly dead, if it pleases you.” At that he slowly kneeled to the ground, inclining his head in the age-old symbol of submission. It grated every fibre of his body to do that - to submit so openly - but he was determined to do that just the same. In the Elder Brother’s care he had learned that following his previous instincts of hate and anger might be satisfying in the short term, but in the end left only an even angrier feeling in his gut. It was time to try something different.

“You say you want your brother dead?” Prince Doran voiced what many others could not believe. “But you are the same - famous for your own evil deeds. The dead of Saltpans are crying out for their revenge against you.”

Sandor’s eyes flashed. _It always comes down to Saltpans. Cursed Elder Brother for leaving my helmet behind. Will I be explaining Saltpans until my deathbed?_ He continued nevertheless, still kneeling on the ground.

“Saltpans was not my doing, Your Grace. If you care to examine the letter I have brought from the Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle, he explains in it that at the time I was still recovering from my near fatal wounds in his care. It was an outlaw called Rorge, one of my brother’s henchmen, who committed those crimes wearing my hound’s head helmet.” He reached for a pouch on his waist and removed a sealed letter which he extended to the prince.

Prince Doran nodded and one of the guards retrieved the letter and brought it to him. He broke the seal and examined it for a long time.

“It seems you can be exonerated of that crime at least. But still, you claim you are not here to revenge your brother. Why should I believe you?”

He saw movement on the dais from the edge of his vision and heard a woman’s voice.

“He speaks the truth, my prince. He had no love for his brother. He has sworn revenge on him and surely has relished his death. He likely indeed just wants to make sure that he is finally dead.”

Sandor lifted his head and turned his gaze on Sansa, who had spoken. _Little Bird coming to my defence? She should condemn me for the way how I left her._ Prince Doran did likewise. Under their combined gazes she silenced, bit her lip and sat down, not looking at them again.

After a while the prince raised his voice. “If this is true, and you are sincere in what you tell, you are welcome.  We will have words later. I hope you understand if I offer our hospitality to you in the form of two guards to look after your needs, including accommodation?”

Sandor nodded, not saying anything. What the prince had offered meant in practice that he would be kept as a prisoner under guard until such time as the prince examined his case, but he would settle for that with a good grace. It was infinitively better than to be thrown directly to the dungeons, a possibility that had crossed his mind.

Two guards approached him and pointed him to sit down in one of the lower tables. It was initially almost fully occupied, but after a few moments its occupants had surreptitiously shifted further or left the table altogether, leaving him to sit there almost by himself. He leaned towards his plate and tore a chunk of bread from the platter. Whatever happened next, he had to eat.

Every now and then he threw a glance towards Sansa, who was talking in hushed voices with a beautiful blonde girl. He recognised with a startle that to be Myrcella Baratheon - Lannister - who had left King’s Landing so many years ago to her betrothed in Dorne. He was pleased to see her looking so well. Cersei’s other offspring had been good children, only Joffrey had been the bad apple of the lot. He leaned down further to avoid Sansa seeing his glances.


	4. Sandor’s Offer

**_Sansa_ **

Sansa couldn’t quite believe her eyes or the scenario in front of her – the Hound _kneeling?_ Asking for _absolution?_

She didn’t know how she was able to finish the meal. She kept on looking sideways at the table with the lonely figure of the Hound – _no, Sandor Clegane_. A few times she saw his eyes darting to her direction, but when their eyes met they both immediately diverted theirs away.

At the end of the meal Sansa gave her excuses and withdrew to her chambers at the shadow of the Tower of the Sun. She spent the evening walking restlessly back and forth in her solar, eventually going to bed but being unable to sleep.

_The Hound is here. He is alive._

She had thought about him often during her years in Dorne. She had shared some of her history with her companions, but only to one person she had told all about him.

Narella Sand was her best friend – they were of similar age, both initially feeling out of place in that court of bold, beautiful people, all so confident about their place in it. Narella had arrived there only shortly before Sansa had, brought over by her knightly father after her mother’s death. Over the years they had both grown in confidence and in friendship and shared everything, including their secrets and their hearts desires.

Sansa had confided to her the story of the Hound and how he had been the only one in King’s Landing to stand up for her and advise her. She had also told her about the night of the battle of Blackwater and how he had asked her for a song. At first Narella had not understood why he had asked for a song, of all things. Sansa had described her their earlier meeting at the Serpentine stairs and how he had said that one day he’ll have a song from her, whether she willed it or not. At that Narella had looked at her incredulously before bursting into a raucous laughter.

“A song – you though he meant _a song?!”_ Narella had hardly been able to talk, so full of mirth she had been.

“Of course – what else?” Sansa had started to get annoyed at her friend.

“A song, yes, a song that _lovers_ share _…”_ Narella had jeered at her. Although she was not much older than Sansa, she was a bastard and her maidenhead was not a matter of state, so she had done her share of exploring the joys of womanhood.

“Oh!” exclaimed Sansa, blushing deeply. _And I told him I will sing it for him gladly!_

She had also confided to Narella her mixed feelings about him; how from her initial fright she had gradually started to see him as her protector, to the extent it was possible under Joffrey’s sadistic rule. She remembered his strength, his powerful presence and his brutal honestly. The night when he had come to her she had been at first so very afraid, scared of his bloodied face and his wild eyes full of reflections of green fire and terror. But when he had pressed her against the bed and she had thought him about to kiss her…she had been frightened but also strangely stirred.

She had dreamt of that kiss for a long time afterwards, but after discussions with Narella she had started to doubt if it actually had happened at all. Surely she would remember the feeling of his scarred lips on her own? All she could truly remember was the _anticipation_ of a kiss, as she had closed her eyes when he had leaned over her. That didn’t prevent her imagining it many times over as she was lying in her bed. The stories Narella shared with her about her adventures with men filled her mind with new insights she had not thought about before. _Had he only wanted to protect me as his king’s betrothed? Or as a child in need of protection? Or as a woman he coveted? He told me once I looked almost a woman…_

At times she had wondered if she had known the man at all. When she had first heard of the Butcher of Saltpans, she doubted if it really could be the Hound she remembered. She liked to think not – but then again, he had been so full of anger, his grey eyes so full of rage…If he had finally snapped, who knew what could have followed? But he had come to Dorne, apparently with a proof that it wasn’t him, dressed in a brother’s garb. _Who is this man, really?_

**_Sandor_ **

Sandor finished his meal and was escorted to a modest but comfortable room across the castle yard for the night. Before he had even settled down there was a knock on the door. Prince Doran wanted to see him, the guards told, and escorted him to spacious and comfortable rooms at the Tower of the Sun. The prince was sitting by the window but turned his chair laboriously to face him. His lap was covered with a richly decorated coverlet, but it could not hide the grotesque twist of his legs.

 “Sandor Clegane, you tell me you came here in peace. The Elder Brother’s letter seems to confirm that. I know him and his reputation and if he vouches for you, I feel I have no choice but to accept it.”

He looked at Sandor with piercing eyes. _His body may be broken but his mind is sharp as ever._

“Aye, I have spent these last few years on the Quiet Isle with him. He seems to think there is still something worth saving in me,” Sandor replied hoarsely.

“He wrote that you came here to see with your own eyes if the skull the Lannisters sent us is that of your brother Gregor Clegane. How would you know that any better than any of us who have seen him in his life?”

Sandor explained to the prince the same story he had told the Elder Brother. The prince nodded and seemed to consider that for a while before gesturing to one of the guards. The man scurried away but returned almost immediately with an ebony chest fitted with silver clasps and hinges. He placed it reverently on the floor in front of them and opened it slowly to reveal a huge skull resting on a bed of black felt.

Sandor could not tear his eyes away from it. It appeared to be grinning – almost as if Gregor still taunted him from beyond the death. He leaned closer to examine its right side, and saw to his relief that it indeed bore a deep indentation in the temple. It was fully healed and not like the crashed bone he had seen that day so many years ago. Without the doubt it was still the same injury, only superficially healed. _Is this what made you a monster, Gregor?_

He lifted his head and nodded solemnly to Prince Doran. “It is him; this is the skull of Gregor Clegane. Both the man and The Mountain Who Rides are truly dead.”

Prince Doran closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh. Then he gestured the guard to close the chest.

“I owe you my gratitude. I never held it above the Lannisters to try to cheat me by sending somebody else’s skull, but now I know that my sister and her children have truly been revenged.”

“Likewise I will be in debt to you, my prince. Without this opportunity I would have never had a chance to know for sure that my own justice has been achieved.”  Sandor was still staring at the chest but glanced briefly to the prince as he spoke.

“And what do you want to do now; turn back and return to the Quiet Isle?” Prince Doran looked at him quizzically.

“It depends on you, my prince, what I do next. I came here with an intention to offer my services to House Martell in recompense for the bad deeds my kin - Gregor - has done to your family. I am not really suited to stay among the brother of the Seven for the rest of my days and I doubt the Lions would want me back.” He half-smiled sardonically at that before continuing.

“I suspect all the families I have hurt by my own actions are too scattered and unknown to me to approach. I mainly fought against ordinary soldiers and small bannermen, and was never important enough to be sent to harm big noble houses.”

Sandor hadn’t really planned what to say, so unexpected the turn of events that night had been, but he knew he had to do this.

“But tonight in your hall I thought I saw someone against whose family and her own person I myself have done grievous harm. Was it Lady Sansa Stark sitting in your table?”

Sandor was nervous – what if it was not the little bird after all, only someone with an uncanny resemblance? Someone who had just been horrified to see his scarred face.

“You saw right, it was indeed Lady Sansa. She has been my ward for the last few years, coming here together with the skull you just saw. It is not widely known as Cersei Lannister wanted people to believe that she had suffered her just punishment for murdering her son. But I had better use for her than to let her die in the dungeons of the Red Keep. She is, after all, the last remaining heir of house Stark.”

“Did she? Murder King Joffrey?” Sandor had not been able to control himself before the words spurted out. Prince Doran shrugged his shoulders.

“I have not asked her, and she has not told me. Even if she did, I wouldn’t hold it against her. According to the information I have, it was not exactly a loving betrothal – not like my Trystane and Myrcella Lannister.”

Sandor wasn’t sure if the answer was what he had expected. At least somebody seemed to think it a possibility that the little bird could have been a murderess.

“What is that better use, if I may be so bold as to ask? Has she been married to some noble Dornish lord?” Sandor hadn’t realised how urgently he needed to hear the answer to that question before he had just asked it. That evening she had been sitting on the dais with other young women – _surely if she was married she would have sat with her lord husband?_

“No, not yet. She is still young and the times are unsettled, so there is no urgency with the matter. When the time comes, you can be sure that I will see her settled well.”

Sandor took a deep breath. He hadn’t had time to think things over and wasn’t sure if what he was going to suggest was a good idea. He might live to regret it after the little bird would be married to some lord and he would have to follow her and see her with another.

“I would like to offer my services to Lady Sansa, if she accepts me. I would do whatever it is that she may require of me.” Sandor bowed again. He felt uncomfortable with all the bowing and scraping to which he was not used to, but if this was what he had to do to be taken seriously, then he bloody well would do it.

Prince Doran responded to him with a slight frown. “It will be up to Lady Sansa. If she accepts you, I have no objections. But if she doesn’t, and you still want to remain here, I am sure we can find you some position in my household. However, if she _doesn’t_ want you here, I need to ask you to leave. Do you understand?”

“I do, and I accept any decision Lady Stark will make.” Sandor nodded curtly before the prince dismissed him with a wave of a hand and he left the room.


	5. First Meetings

**Sansa**

Sansa knew she had to see Sandor and talk to him. It turned out to be impossible that evening – he was either surrounded by his guards or meeting Prince Doran.

In the morning Sansa couldn’t take it any longer and got up very early, when the earliest rays of the sun had hardly reached across the distant horizon. She moved quickly from her own rooms down the stairs aiming to go to the guesthouse she knew he was housed in. She thought she could reason with the guards to allow them few minutes. She wouldn’t even mind if the guards would stay with them, if necessary.

Just as she was about to step out of the tower, he saw a tall dark figure detaching itself from the shadows of the portico and moving quietly towards her. _He is here._ He hadn’t lost any of the grace or fluidity of movement so unusual for such a large man.

“Lady Sansa” he muttered in low voice, towering above her. He was so close Sansa could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“My Lord Clegane,” replied Sansa, her heart pounding so loud in her chest she was sure he could hear it.

For a while they stayed silent. Eventually Sandor continued. “I was surprised to see you here, as you must have guessed. You seemed surprised as well.” Although he had not voiced it as a question, it undoubtedly was one and Sansa tried to find the words to respond.

“I…I thought you were dead. Nobody had heard of you for such a long time, and after Saltpans there were so many stories….”

“Did you believe I was that butcher?” His voice didn’t give anything away.

Sansa watched him more closely. He looked as she remembered, seemingly not aged at all, but his face had lost the red puffiness it had had due to too much drinking. She had used to think him so old, but that had been only because she had been so young and sheltered … She estimated him to be only in his late twenties or early thirties. His face was lean and hardened but not lined as older men’s features were.

He still kept his hair combed over the burned side and had an uneven beard covering most of his cheeks and jaw. His body loomed as large as it had ever done in her dreams. His brown and dun robes had been replaced with Dornish style light tunic and breeches. The smooth thin fabric accentuated his shape as it clung to his broad shoulders and strong legs.

“No! I…didn’t, really. But still, there was no news and everyone thought that such distinctive man as you would be seen if he was alive, so I just assumed…like everybody else.” She was stumbling her words. She felt like that young and foolish girl she had been in King’s Landing, frightened of the scary warrior. She shook her head, getting angry at herself _. I am not that girl anymore. I am a wolf, growing amongst the snakes and getting stronger._

Sansa lifted her head and asked him using her most regal voice: “If you were not at Saltpans, where have you been all these years?” She noticed that she was not afraid of looking at him anymore - not his scars nor his eyes.

He stared at her for a long time before answering. “I was trying to find peace. I almost died by the Trident, of the wounds I received in a fight with my brother’s men. The Elder Brother found me and nursed me back to health. So I stayed with him on the Quiet Isle.”

Sansa looked at him enquiringly. “Are you truly a brother of the Seven now?” _The Hound – a brother? He who always laughed derisively at the gods and named his horse after Stranger himself._

“No, I am not – I have not said my wows. I was only living with them and offering my services in return for my keep. Mayhap I might have become a brother eventually – but the Elder Brother thought I was not ready. I may still not appreciate the gods as well as I should.” Sandor snorted and for a moment he looked like the Hound of old.

“What about you, little bird? Did you escape your prison in King’s Landing to end up in another in Sunspear?” He cocked his head and looked unswervingly at Sansa.

For a moment she didn’t know what to say. _Am I a prisoner? Could I leave if I wanted?_ She had never really thought about it. Firstly, she was happy and didn’t even dream of leaving her new home. Secondly, if he left, where would she go? Winterfell was in ruins and still occupied by the Boltons, Riverrun likewise held by the enemies of her house. She had no kin left except her half-brother Jon Snow in the Wall, and nobody had heard of him for a long time.

“No, I am not a prisoner,” she concluded. “I came here after Joffrey’s death when Oberyn Martell demanded my wardship as a recompense for the Lannister’s sins against House Martell. The Lannisters wanted to marry me to Tyrion, the Tyrells proposed Willas as my husband. I was like a bone fought over by two powerful houses, and then the third came and snapped me right out of the jaws of both!” She grinned at that, proud to have been an instrument to put those hated houses to their place by the shrewd Prince Doran. Then she got serious.

“Had I not been brought here, I would have been likely executed by Queen Cersei. She was convinced I had something to do with Joffrey’s murder.” She could see Sandor intending to say something but then thinking better of it. He however gave her a faint smile.

Then it hit Sansa what was so different in him; something she had noticed immediately but had not been able to quite put her finger on what it was. It was his eyes – they had lost the rage that used to fill them and make him so frightening.

“And here we are. Neither of us dead – as indeed I was sure you were dead as well, executed by Cersei.”

The silence between them renewed itself and they looked at each other for a long time without saying a word. Finally he reached towards her, enclosing her wrists into his big hands and pulled her closer.

“Little bird, I…” Before he could finish the sentence they heard voices from the corridor, a group of courtiers approaching. With one quick look at her he turned, released her wrists and was gone.

**_Sandor_ **

It was Sandor’s first night for a long time under a roof in a proper bed. He fell asleep as soon as his body hit the mattress and slept a long dreamless night. He woke to first rays of the sun peering through the window. It was still early so he stayed in his bed, thinking.

It had been a shock to see the little bird previous night. _A ward of the Martells. To be married when Prince Doran thinks the time is right._ None of the rumours circulating Westeros about the matters of the Seven Kingdoms had mentioned this. And she had looked so different. Not the frightened little girl anymore, but a beautiful young woman. Her hair was still vivid auburn and her eyes intense blue, but her face was not the same pale, cold mask that had sometimes fallen apart in tears under Joffrey’s sadistic treatment. No, her countenance was strong and self-assured, and the healthy hue of her features only enhanced her beauty.

Sandor felt something stir in him – the echoes of the hopeless longing towards something innocent and delicate, which he had felt in King’s Landing. He had tried to fight against it by treating her harshly, by telling her cruel things and taunting her innocence, but it hadn’t helped. Yet that had been at the time when he himself had been different. So cruel, so filled with simmering anger and hate that the only way he had been able to deal with such purity had been to try to drag it down to his own level. He was glad that those days were gone. He thought that the second time around he might even survive her on _her_ terms.

Sandor wanted to see her as soon as possible, after Prince Doran had given him permission to offer his services to her. He got up quickly, dressed in clothes that servants had left in his room and tried to find a way out. It was not even hard; the crossbars in the window were loose and he was able to twist them aside without difficulties and slip quietly through them. Clearly this room was not intended to contain _real_ prisoners.

He knew in which tower the royal family lived and decided that to be as good place as any to try to locate her. He slipped into the portico and prepared for a long wait before anyone would get up and open the door, but it opened almost immediately and a woman stepped out. _The little bird._

He had wanted to ask her if she would accept him in her service, or whether she wanted him to leave altogether. Before he got that far they were interrupted. He couldn’t afford to be apprehended on the loose on his first day in Sunspear, so he returned to his room, his guards being blissfully unaware that he had even left.

\----------

Next few days he spent either in his room or being escorted around the castle by one of the guards. His position had seemingly changed from a suspicious visitor, treated practically as a prisoner, to one of a cordially received guest. It was evident that the Elder Brother had an unexpected degree of influence even as far as Dorne.

He studied the castle and its fortifications with a trained eye and visited the training yards where the knights and men-at-arms practiced. He didn’t see Sansa again, but knew it was only a matter of time. He just had to be patient.

Suspecting that whatever his role might be in the future, either in the service of House Martell or Stark, it would require some soldiering, he requested a possibility to practice. That was duly granted and his guard companion was allowed to collect Sandor’s heavy longsword that had been confiscated earlier. He also agreed to a bout with Sandor and soon they were facing each other, swords crashing, sweat dripping from their brows under the harsh Dornish sun.

The guard was young and affable and his name was Atholl. They sparred for a while, Sandor eventually feeling his muscles aching from not being used for that purpose for a long time. It had been months since he had truly exercised, but he felt good nonetheless. This was what he had been trained for – he was still a fighter.

One day when they were training he noticed that they had started to attract spectators. Atholl had already told him in gushing eagerness how everyone in the castle had heard that the famous Hound was there. Sandor irritably corrected him about the use of his old name, telling how the Hound was no more - but it didn’t seem to have any effect. Now that Prince Doran was known to approve of him, the awe his reputation had always solicited in the Seven Kingdoms started to raise its head in Dorne as well.

From the corner of his eye Sandor noticed a young woman at the front row among the spectators. She had a raven black hair, dark glittering eyes and sensuous lips. She was dressed in a loose-fitting tunic and slack trousers and was carrying a bow. From its size it appeared to be specifically built for a woman, so it was unlikely that she was just a servant carrying her master’s weapon.

Sandor had noticed how women in Dorne enjoyed much more freedom than women in other kingdoms. They moved about without escort, rode freely in and out of the castle and the city, even practiced with arms, as this woman seemed to. Their demeanour was different too; they were not shy or demure but bold and sensuous. There must be some truth in the song about the Dornishman’s wife, he mused to himself.

At the end of the session as he cooled himself down by stripping his tunic and dousing a bucket of water over his head, the woman approached him. Conscious of his appearance he nodded curtly, wondering what she wanted.

“So you are the Hound, who used to be the Lannister dog?” she said in a melodious voice, sidling closer as she spoke.

For the third or fourth time that he day he snarled, “Not the Hound, _Sandor Clegane.”_

“Hmmh – if you say so! I am Narella Sand, and I have heard much about you.” She inched even closer and was now standing hardly a hand breadth away. Sandor was very aware of his dishevelled state, his upper body bare and still dripping water.

“It seems that everyone in Dorne has. But don’t you believe everything they say,” he muttered and turned to retrieve his clothing.

“Oh, I am not talking about the same stories everyone else is, about the Ironborn rebellion, the battle of Blackwater or Saltpans. What I have been told has been _much_ more interesting!” She didn’t make any effort to move out of his way but just stayed there, preening at him.

“So, what have you heard?” Sandor had finally reached his tunic, pulled it on and was ready to leave, not really interested in whatever gossip this exotic woman had in her possession.

“That you protect fair maidens and are not nearly as cruel as people believe. That you look forward to have a song from them, whether they will it or not.” Her eyes were mischievous and stared straight into his.

He froze. _What the hells is she talking about?!_

“Mayhap some maidens will give you that song of their own free will.” She pulled herself even closer, extending her hand to touch his arm.

Sandor pulled his arm away as if her touch had burned and stormed away without looking back. _Hells, does everyone in Dorne know what a fool I have been?!_


	6. Sansa’s Plans

**_Sansa_ **

A few days later Sansa requested an audience with Prince Doran. She wanted to know what he had discussed with Sandor Clegane, and what would happen to him.

Sansa decided that honesty was her best course of action and hence told the prince why she felt an interest towards this man, the only one who had been kind to her in King’s Landing. Prince Doran was a shrewd man and known to sniff out liars and schemers – and if anything, she owed him the truth. He listened to her politely and shared his discussion with Sandor Clegane with her, including how Sandor had expressed a wish to offer her his services.

Later that day Sansa went for a long ride on her mare, dressed in a tunic and breeches and feeling the liberation that only a hard ride could give. She had only Trysan as her companion, and their route took them close to the sea shore and across endless fields of dry grass. Trysan kept his distance sensing her desire to be on her own.

 _Sandor Clegane wants to swear his service to me. That is what he tried to tell me that morning._ She felt flushed at the thought – it would mean that he wouldn’t leave Dorne after all as she had feared. She wondered what she would do with him, what could he do for her? She didn’t need a bodyguard, didn’t have troops to call her own - and clearly he was not fit to be just an ordinary servant.

She rode harder and harder, wanting to clear her head of the confusion of the last few days. As she rode, a new thought formed in her head.

_I could finally get my vengeance._

Over the years, as her confidence had grown alongside her skills and strengths, she had looked back at her time at court and wondered how she had been so tame, so stupid. She should have pushed Joffrey down the parapet, no matter about consequences. She should have avenged her father. There had been many opportunities for even a weak girl like her if she only would have used them, instead of cowering in fear. She could have hidden a dagger in her body and sliced Joffrey’s throat when he came close to her. She could have ground glass and sprinkled it in his food. She could have even tried to scheme behind his back to bring about his downfall – one way or another.  There were so many ways she could have hurt her enemies if she only had been bold enough. She was the blood of the wolves, but then she had been only a mewling cub.

She had finally understood what drove men in their quest for revenge. She realised how nothing could taste as sweet as seeing her enemies fall and knowing that it was her vengeance that brought them down.

During the many long hours when she was practicing to shoot the bow, first instructed by Obara Sands, later by the guards and knights of Sunspear, she imagined the dummies at which she was aiming her arrows to be Joffrey, Cersei, Ser Boros, Roose Bolton, Theon Greyjoy…all her enemies, one after another. Each time her arrow hit the target, she felt deep satisfaction.

_If I would have Sandor Clegane by my side, I could seek my revenge. We could go to Casterly Rock where Cersei has retired and pluck her out of there to answer for her crimes against my family. We could ride to Winterfell and raise the Stark bannermen to fight against the Boltons and claim Winterfell back. We could find Theon Greyjoy from where ever he is hiding and avenge Bran and Rickon…_

Back at the castle she called for her servant to fetch Sandor Clegane into her solar. She changed into her most stately clothes; a dress of fine grey silk with a tight bodice, narrow waist and multiple layers of white and grey silk flowing from her waist all the way to the ground, longer at the back, forming a train that followed her when she moved. The neckline and the short sleeves were decorated with embroidery of silver thread. She tied her hair back in a simple northern style but fastened it with a silver chain studded with precious stones, a gift she had received from the prince on her nameday. She knew she looked regal, beautiful and powerful. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves while waiting for the instrument of her vengeance – _I am ready._

Sandor arrived shortly, not being fully able to hide his curiosity. Sansa beckoned him closer and waved the servant to leave. He looked dishevelled and sweaty – he must have arrived straight from the arms practice. His tunic was glued to his body by the moisture and she could clearly see the curly hair on his chest through the light fabric. For a moment her concentration faltered but then she inhaled and started.

“Sandor Clegane, I understand you wish to enter my service in recompense of your earlier transgressions towards my house.” From his intense stare she could see that she had his full attention. He nodded silently and Sansa continued, feeling his scrutiny giving her strength instead of making her nervous, as it would have done before.

“I accept your offer. I will take you into my service, and ask you to aid me in my revenge towards those who have done wrong against me and mine.”

“Revenge? Are you sure?” Sandor looked astonished. 

“Yes, I am sure. I am not anymore that weak little girl I used to be, and it is time for those who destroyed my family to answer for their crimes.” She pressed her hands together and walked towards the window.

“I know Cersei Lannister is at Casterly Rock, thinking she can just get away from it all by going back to her home. _She_ still has a home to go to, unlike me!”

Sandor followed her with his gaze, arching his eyebrow.

“I am not a prisoner here. Prince Doran doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to marry me off, and I am sure that as long as I promise to come back and marry according to his wishes, he will support me in this endeavour.” She turned away from the window facing him squarely. “Then we can go to the North, call the Stark bannermen and raise a siege to Winterfell. I have heard that the Bolton’s have destroyed any support base they might have ever had there and it shouldn’t be too difficult to overthrow them.”

She felt heat rise on her cheeks just for thinking about how they would do that all.

“Are you quite sure, little bird?” Sandor rasped. “Is revenge really worth throwing away this good life you have here?”

“Don’t call me little bird! I am not that little anymore!” Sansa was irritated. She had thought he would accept her decisions immediately rather than question her about them. He was a man, he was a warrior – surely he knew what revenge was all about?

“If you say so, _Lady_ Sansa. But I still to have to say what I intended: revenge doesn’t bring back your family, it doesn’t make your pain any less. All it can do is to make your life bitter, whether you fulfil your desire for vengeance or not.” Sandor moved to the window and raised his hand to take her chin between his fingers. He turned her head gently so she had to look into his eyes as he continued.

“Revenge is a harsh path to follow and at the end of that road you only feel emptiness like you have never felt before. Ask yourself if it is truly worth it.”

Sansa shook his hand away and snorted angrily, “You are a fine person to talk about it; you wanted to avenge yourself to your brother. And don’t tell me you were not happy when you heard of his death!”

“You are right, I was happy. But it was not my doing but a fate he had been going towards all his life.” He was looking at her with sadness in his eyes.

Now she felt really angry. _Why is he trying to prevent me? Why is he not supporting me!?_ Before she knew what she was doing, she slapped him hard across the face, on the good side. The sound of the slap reverberated in the ensuing silence and she could see a white spot on his cheek where it had hit.

Sandor retreated slowly, bowing his head as he went. There had been a flash in his eyes for a moment, but then it was gone, replaced by a controlled mask.

“If you command me, I will revenge your kin. I will do whatever you want to me to do, Lady Stark.”

Sansa was breathing hard, not knowing why she had acted as she had. Before she could say anything more, he cut her.

“And now, if you don’t mind, I will go to my room and start planning how to best come about with that revenge. My lady.” He bowed, turned and was gone.

Frustrated, Sansa fell down on the chair. _Why does he have to be so…difficult!_

**_Sandor_ **

The slap itself was nothing – Sandor had experienced worse, _much_ worse. Yet his mind reeled. _Who is this woman? What has happened to the little bird, who was always so courteous, so meek and polite?_

In all honesty he had to admit to himself that by advising her in King’s Landing he had wished her to become stronger, more hardened. Maybe he should be satisfied, as that was what she seemed to be. _Hard._

He sighed. If helping her in her revenge was what she wanted him for, that’s what he would do. That was the least he could do for her – but it pained him to see her becoming bitter and forever chasing after the elusive satisfaction of vengeance achieved. He knew there would always be an enemy left, a new enemy made – it would be a never ending cycle.

He slept fitfully, dreaming of the young girl who had been so soft and genteel, scared to even look at his face.

Sandor continued going to the practice yard every day and sparring not only with Atholl, but with other men-at-arms, with whom he gradually started to become familiar. He better get ready for the task ahead as soon as possible.

One day he saw again the exotic young woman, Narella, practicing with her bow. She was good, he had to concede. Sometime later to his surprise he saw Sansa approaching, dressed in a similar loose-fitting garb as Narella. She had a bow with her and together they shoot practice. She was good as well, hitting her target almost every time.

Sandor started to understand what Narella had meant previously. _The little bird must have told her about me. I am sure they have had a good laugh about the old foolish dog!_ He grew sullen and attacked his sparring opponent with a renewed vigour, almost grinding him to the ground before stopping.

Afterwards Sansa came to him, thankfully without her friend. She seemed unsure of herself and took her time before she spoke.

“I…I shouldn’t have hit you as I did the other day. It was not proper as you had just offered yourself in my service.”

Sandor felt guilty pleasure of seeing her so uncomfortable. At the same time he was still fuming. He had always felt that whatever it was that he had had with her had been only between them. In reality, it had really been nothing, just a few exchanges, a few cheap acts of gallantry on his part when she had been at her lowest point – and the stolen song and his dagger on her throat. Still, she had shared them with her friends, probably giggling as girls were want to do.

“My lady, think nothing of it. As you can see I am trying to set myself up to the task you have laid in front of me.” He bowed stiffly, enjoying even more the look of uneasiness on her face.

“I have discussed with Prince Doran,” she continued, her discomfort gradually giving way to an expression of annoyance. “He will support me, but first he wants to find out the exact situation in Casterly Rock and in the North. He thinks it better that I know exactly what and whom I am dealing with before going ahead. He is sending ravens around and hopes to be able to find out everything that is needed soon. If everything appears auspicious, he will commit some Dornish troops to assist us.”

Sandor just glared at her, thinking how that was the most obvious course of action and thank gods there was someone with a straight head helping the little bird. _No; Lady Sansa Stark. It seems she has grown out of her nickname just like I have._

“If you insist on continuing this foolish quest of yours, that will not  offer anything good for you – if you insist on throwing away your current good fortune with your both hands, who am I to oppose it. After all, I am just an old hound, only worth of laughing about with your highborn friends.” He was sneering at her now, unable to control his ire.

She looked at her uncomprehending, but as the awkwardness between them didn’t ease, she moved along muttering something about seeing him in the feast later.

Sandor turned to Atholl to ask about what feast she had been talking about.

“Oh, didn’t you know? Tomorrow is the feast of the Mother River, and old ancient feast from our Rhoynish ancestors. It is not an official feast anymore and some of the Faith of the Seven deem it as an old superstitious custom – but ordinary folk enjoy it!” Atholl’s young face was beaming from excitement.

“No wonder - young people at least do,” grinned one of the older men-at-arms. “It is the only time of the year when men and women can go the woods together with no fear of reprisal. Most children in Dorne are born nine months after the feast of the Mother River, and if they don’t exactly resemble their sires, nobody is complaining!”

Sandor raised his eyebrow, surprised to hear such pagan rites still being practiced in this part of the realm. “Does everyone take part in this…feast?”

“Not everyone. Some nobles, who have adopted the Faith of Seven, may not be so keen. Most highborn lords are as eager as smallfolk, but propriety dictates that their ladies cannot join them. Or well, they do for the feasting and music and dancing, but when the festivities really get underway and the couples start slipping to the forest, they usually leave.” Atholl explained.  

“You should join us for sure. This is also a night when the tables are turned and instead of men pursuing women, women can choose their men. Some men are accosted by more than one woman. I myself enjoyed the feast last year with no more than three maids pursuing me, one more beautiful than another!” Atholl was now grinning broadly. “The knights and guards of the castle are always sought after. Now that the famous Hound is known to be here, you can expect tomorrow to be a good night for you!”

“Why would they be seeking someone like me – with my face and my reputation?” Sandor couldn’t help himself. Usually those attributes were an assured way to avoid any female attention.

“You’ll see that Dornish women don’t necessarily care about such things. It is not your face they’ll be looking for to relieve their…longing. And your reputation as a Clegane would have been a hindrance before for sure, but if our Prince accepts you, who are we to argue? And as for your reputation as a fighting man – that is all just positive to these hot-bloodied women of Dorne!” Atholl looked just about ready to explode, so excited he was.

Sandor just nodded, wondering how to survive the next evening. During his years on the Quiet Isle he hadn’t had any interactions with women, which was actually not that different to his time in King’s Landing and before that, in Casterly Rock. Women didn’t seek his company, and from a young age he had learned to satisfy whatever carnal urges he had had with whores. Easier and less complicated that way.

There had been only one woman he had thought of with a longing more than an immediate itch…but it seemed that this woman didn’t exist anymore. He shrugged his shoulders and went to collect his weapons.


	7. The Feast

**_Sansa_ **

Sansa usually enjoyed the feast of the Mother River. It was a time to enjoy good food, singing, dancing and good company. She knew what happened during the feast as well as any other Dornish maid, but she also knew that it didn’t apply to her. She was a highborn lady and her marriage was a matter of state, so she couldn’t be seen to indulge in such pagan rites. Still she didn’t mind, as there had never been anyone she would have been particularly interested in. Also, hearing Narella’s and her other friends’ flustered confessions and giggling descriptions of the night fulfilled her curiosity just as much as she needed. Those stories excited her and raised all kinds of strange sensations, but she tried to push them aside. She was supposed to think of such things only with her lord husband, when that time came. But she couldn’t help the dreams that followed, always including a tall hulking figure leaning over her against the backdrop of fiery green sky…

She was not so sure she would enjoy the feast this time around though. Narella had come to her one evening and gushed how exciting she had found the Hound to be.

“You never told me how imposing figure he is! You only told me about his scars, and how big he was. It is true that his face is quite scary – but did you ever notice his body! His arms, his shoulders, his back and that narrow waist… And I saw him without his tunic, mind you! He was of course scarred elsewhere too, as soldiers are, but the hair on his chest was just so inviting… I can’t help thinking how he looks without his breeches!” she teased Sansa, throwing herself on the divan in her rooms and pretending to be fainting.

Sansa felt herself tense. She had played her meetings with Sandor over and over in her head and wondered how it was possible that seeing him again - the only person whom she had always thought to be on her side in his own, harsh way - had turned out so badly.

She simply didn’t know how to fix it. She had only meant to impress him with how grown-up she was, and not that pathetic little girl she had been. But somehow he didn’t seem to accept it, nor her plans for revenge. Why had he been so angry the last time she saw him, talking about her laughing at him. _Where has he got such notions into his head? I never laughed at him with anyone!_

Suddenly she turned to Narella, furrowing her brow and asking: “Narella, when you met him, did you actually _talk_ to him? And if you did, what did you say?”

Narella turned around on her stomach, taken aback. “Why, yes, I exchanged a few words. Nothing special, I only asked if he was the famous Hound, and that I had heard about him. Why do you ask?”

“Are you sure you didn’t say anything else, anything I might have told you?” Sansa felt a cold dread – that must have been where he had got his clue.

“Well, I did say that if he wanted a song from a maid, some of us would be willing to give it to him of our own free will.” Narella looked slightly sheepish, understanding that she had broken Sansa’s confidence.

“Oh Narella! He thinks I have told it to you and everyone and laughed about it with you all!” Sansa closed her eyes in distress. _No wonder he is angry._

Narella jumped up and begged for her forgiveness, which she of course eventually gave, as she could never be angry at her for long. Nonetheless, she could see how Narella’s careless words could affect her relationship with her future champion and the instigator of her revenge. She saw herself digging into deeper and deeper hole in regards to him with no way of knowing how to correct the situation.

\--------------------

The court’s feast was prepared at the forest just outside Sunspear, attended only by the castle folk, other settlements each having their own. Several long tables had been organised into a big square, middle of which being cleared for music and dancing. The tables were covered with water motif decorations: colourfully painted clay fish, green glass sculptures representing waves and water lilies in big vases.

Food was plentiful and likewise themed with water; fish and shellfish, pickled seaweed, little cakes in shape of fish. Wine flowed freely and singers across Dorne took turns in plucking their instruments and singing melodies of old. As the night progressed, dancing started and young and old found themselves hopping to lively tunes of old Rhoynish songs.

Sansa spotted Sandor in one of the tables directly across hers, surrounded by men-at-arms of the castle. He seemed jovial enough, eating and drinking and even seemed to smile at the jokes thrown around by others. The burned corner of his mouth still twitched when he was either smiling or scowling, and she hoped it was because of the former that night.  

Sansa found herself not enjoying the feast. She ate little and didn’t dance despite of many requests from nobles. She saw Myrcella twirling with Trystane Martell, her golden curls bobbing and a broad smile on her face. For a moment Sansa felt jealous of her happiness although she knew it to be unfair.  As the feast was in its peak, she found herself wondering if she could just sneak away, back to the castle.

Then she saw Narella approaching Sandor. Most men in his table had already disappeared with willing Dornish women and he was sitting alone. Narella seemed to talk to him and after a few exchanges sat down next to him. Sansa stared at them in disbelief. _Is she really going to go after him?!_

Suddenly she found herself getting up and walking towards them. Just as she approached she saw Narella leaning towards Sandor’s good ear and whispering something in it. He raised a quizzical eyebrow and leaned back in his seat, seemingly contemplating what she had just said.

“I hope you find our local feast enjoyable,” Sansa addressed him when she was within a hearing distance, nodding to Narella. Sandor looked at her sardonically, his mouth twitching.

“The feast is definitively…interesting. Nothing like this in King’s Landing or Casterly Rock, or anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms I would say.”

“Yes, people in Dorne take their Rhoynish heritage quite seriously.” Sansa felt her cheeks go red and hated how he was looking at her openly amused. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you are enjoying the feast. After all, when in my service, it is my duty to ensure you are well looked after.”

“Aye, it seems that I am. Thank you for your consideration, my lady.”

Sansa started to retreat, feeling more foolish than ever. Before she had gone far she heard hurried steps behind her and felt Narella tugging her hand.

“Sansa, do you mind if I go with him? If you do, just tell me and I promise to leave him alone. I only wanted to get to him before he finally agrees to leave with someone. You must have seen how other women have asked him. He is quite imposing figure, as you know.” She had stopped Sansa and looked at her pleadingly.

“If you want, I can also make sure that nobody else approaches him tonight – I have my means. So if you would like to have him for yourself…” her words faded under the look Sansa gave her. _If I would like to have him for myself?_

“Of course not Narella, I don’t care with whom he consorts as long as he will do his duty for my cause. I only wanted to make sure he is well taken care of, that’s all.” Narella looked relieved but gazed at Sansa with a curious expression on her face. Finally she nodded, squeezed Sansa’s hand and turned to return to the table.

After Sansa saw Sandor and Narella getting up and leaving together a short time later, she called for the guards and left for the castle. In her rooms she threw herself into her bed. _Why did he come here!? For so long I dreamt of him, but now that he is finally here it is all turning into a nightmare!_

**_Sandor_ **

Atholl had been right; even before the feast had reached its peak Sandor was approached by several women inviting him to join them in the woods. He turned them down, not quite sure why, but he did.

He noticed the little bird in the other table and paid close attention to what she did. Despite Atholl having declared that highborn ladies did not participate in all activities of the night, the extent of how much she had changed made him wonder. _Will I see her sneaking into the woods with some handsome knight?_ The thought made him feel empty in a way he could not quite explain to himself.

She stayed in her seat, eating a little, drinking hardly anything and not participating in dancing. Sandor saw his companions being approached as the evening progressed, most of them accepting the offered soft hand and leaving the table. As he still declined any hints or direct invitations addressed to him, he was soon sitting alone.

He saw the exotic beauty, the one good with the bow, advancing towards him.

“I see that you are not taking the advantage to explore our quaint cultural customs,” she said teasingly and fell on the chair next to him. Sandor only grunted as a way of response.

“Is there anything that might raise your interest? After all, if your lady has become half-Dornish, maybe you should get to know the Dornish ways a bit better,” she whispered in his ear.

Then the little bird stormed over, ostensibly to see if he was satisfied with the feast.

He couldn’t but find the situation quite amusing. _Why would she care if I am enjoying myself or not? Unless…_ He wasn’t sure if he dared to follow the thought to its ultimate conclusion.

Sandor continued sneering at her until she was gone. Once Narella came back and continued her advances, he finally gave in. _Why not? It has been a while and if she is willing…_

So they left.

Narella took her not to the forest, but towards the sea along a winding path. It took a while, but finally they reached the seashore and a little cove she must have known from before, so surely she took him towards it. Once inside, they settled down on floor of the cave, Sandor placing his cloak on it first. Without further encouragement Narella unfastened the laces of her dress, pulled it down to her waist and reached towards Sandor.

“Come here, my hound, show me what the warriors of King’s Landing are made of,” she murmured and pressed her lips on his. Sandor followed her lead and felt his manhood stir. Her soft skin, young firm breasts and soft lips that yielded under his own…it felt almost like in the dreams he had had for years. Narella got hold of his breeches and started to unlace them, alternating that with pulling his tunic and eventually, lifting it over his head and throwing it on the floor.

Sandor was already on top of her, almost divested of his remaining garments when he started to feel distinctively uneasy. Yes, he hadn’t had a woman for a long time and yes, this particular woman was the type most men would give their right arm to enjoy; beautiful, young and passionate, quite without inhibitions. Why was he then feeling like he did, as if what he was doing wasn’t _right?_

The dreams he had had of such situation came to his mind, but they had a distinct difference: in them the woman always had red hair and blue eyes, and it wasn’t just any red-haired woman but her little bird. _Sansa._

Sandor hauled himself away despite Narella’s spluttered manifestations and pulled his breeches up. He knew he was expected to offer some kind of explanation but didn’t feel like it. Slowly he lifted himself to a sitting position and dragged his tunic closer.

“What is it, big man? Am I not to your liking?” Narella was leaning on her elbows, looking enquiringly at him. She looked beautiful, he had to admit, so wanton with her long black hair cascading across her shoulders and half covering her stiff brown nipples. But she was not _her._

He only grunted, not having words to speak out aloud.

“Is it because I don’t have red hair and blue eyes? Because I am not a certain someone you would rather desire to have here with you?” She was now leaning forward and touching his arm. He withdrew it angrily. _What would you know about my desires?_

After a moment of silence she sighed and started to pull her dress up. “You know, it is rather obvious after all. I have seen the way you stare at her when you think nobody is looking.”

Sandor cursed quietly to himself. Narella continued. “I have also seen the way how she looks at you, and heard how she talks about you. Just so you know, she doesn’t discuss about it with anyone, only me. I mean, she has told others about what happened to her when she was betrothed to that sadistic little monster Joffrey, and how you were the only one in the Kingsguard who showed her any kindness.”

“I know,” she raised her hand as if anticipating his protestation. “None of us believed it at first, having heard stories told of you and your reputation, but she kept on insisting so we kind of accepted it.”

Narella was now fully dressed, as was Sandor, but they remained sitting on his cloak as she went on. “When we were alone, she told me about the night you came to her to steal a song.”

Sandor winced. He had been half crazy of terror that night, and had intended to get his comfort out of her soft young body whether she wanted it or not – and how could she have wanted it? How he must have frightened her - no wonder she was still telling the tale.

“Do you know that she thought you kissed her that night? And when she says that, it sounds as if she wished it. Did you… did you kiss her?” Narella looked at him with her dark eyes and Sandor felt compelled to reply.

“No I didn’t. But I intended to; to kiss her and do much worse. She sang me the Mother’s Hymn…and I couldn’t do it.” He lowered his head, his humiliation complete.

“When she told me this, she didn’t do it laughingly. I still don’t fully understand what went on between you two, but she clearly thought about you a lot. She even wished she would have left with you that night.” Her hand touched Sandor’s shoulder and he didn’t move away.

 _Little bird wished she would have left with me? She thought I had kissed her and had_ wished _it? N_ one of that made any sense to him.

They left the cave in silence and walked back to the feast. Narella wanted to stay but Sandor had had enough. He could see that Sansa had left and could not help wondering if she had left with someone after all. He rode hard back to the castle and crashed into his bed wanting to forget the riot of thoughts flashing through his head. 


	8. Misunderstandings

**_Sansa_ **

The next day Sansa couldn’t concentrate on anything. She lifted her embroidery, forgotten and neglected for a long time, but after only couple of stitches she gave up and threw it down again. She went to see if Trysan was free to ride with her, but his room was empty. Undoubtedly he was still recovering from his own feast of the Mother River. He was always chased by one maid or another, and after a night like last he was unlikely to be back until much, much later. Sansa didn’t begrudge him for that. She only wished she could have gone riding to clear her head and force her to concentrate on something else – anything else – but the sight of Sandor and Narella leaving the feast together.

She went to the inner courtyard of the castle and sank on a bench next to a beautiful fountain streaming crystal clear water, offering some respite from the heat. She couldn’t stop thinking of what she had seen; how Narella had bent towards Sandor and whispered in his ear, how he had leaned back to consider. He had told Sansa he was being well looked after – oh, it was obvious what he had meant!

Narella had asked her if she wanted him for herself. _Do I? Would I? Could I?_ That was no use, she knew. Narella could do many things she couldn’t, simply by the virtue of her lower birth. Not for the first time Sansa hoped she wasn’t one of the highest born maidens in the realm. _If I wasn’t, would I want him?_

Sansa also felt anger, although she wasn’t quite sure why. He hadn’t made any promises to her. The whole concept was ridiculous, so big was the difference in their respective positions. He certainly couldn’t know how much she had dreamt of him – he probably thought she was still afraid of him. He was just a man after all, free to do as he wished with whomever he wished. Even though he was in her sworn service, she couldn’t dictate what he did on his own time as long as it didn’t interfere with his duties. Yet she couldn’t avoid it; she was fuming.

She started to think about what he had said about her plans for revenge. Could he be right? He had been correct before, about the court and lies and all that. She wanted to settle some scores  – but if it came with a price of her becoming bitter and never satisfied as long as any of her enemies lived, would it truly be worth it? If he had given up his need for revenge and was seemingly happier for it, maybe she was making a mistake starting on that path. Sansa remembered how angry and full of rage he had been. Would that be her fate if she continued with her plans?

She shuddered. She had found her current contentment after much suffering and she didn’t want to lose it. She would still want Winterfell back, but that was a different matter. Maybe she could achieve that without sacrificing her soul to the dark demons of vengeance.

\--------------------

In the middle of the day Sansa found herself near the practice yard. It was almost empty, as men had either retired for the hottest time of the day or hadn’t even shown up yet. Certain liberties were allowed for the castle folk during the feast of the Mother River, after all. Then she saw a lone figure of a tall man in the middle of the yard, practicing with an elegant curved arakh. Although it was a weapon mostly favoured by the Dothraki, some warriors of Dorne preferred it as well.

She recognised Sandor and stopped behind the pillars near the entrance to watch him. He practiced without his tunic, upper body bare, as soldiers of Dorne commonly did in the heat. She understood then why Narella had been so excited; he was finely built and powerful, but also well proportioned. Several scars traversed his torso, back and front, some of them cleaving through the coarse hair covering his chest, leaving a distinctive trail.

He practiced with the arakh against a dummy, trying different holds of the weapon and different styles of attacks. Even though the style of sword was new to him, Sansa could see that he had already started to get the grasp of how to wield it. His movements were calculated but gracious, smooth as those of a forest cat, as he danced back and forth and around the straw dummy. His face was set in grim determination and at times it looked as if he truly tried to kill the strawman. For a moment Sansa wondered who he imagined it to be.

A squire came from behind her and went past, bowing and muttering a greeting to her as he went. Sandor heard the commotion and turned to look at their direction. For a moment Sansa thought to hide, but it was too late – he had already seen her. She contemplated whether she should just nod at him graciously and leave with as much dignity as she could muster, or stay and watch. Before she had done either, he had started to stroll languidly towards her. As he approached, he wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm, exposing a hairy armpit. Sansa felt her breath quicken - he looked so _manly_.

“My lady.” He bowed his head slightly.

Sansa just stared at him, her emotions churning. She couldn’t find the words to tell him – _what would I want to tell him?_  Her anger had not left her and for a moment she felt like slapping him again. However, she controlled herself – it was bad enough she had done it once. She didn’t even have a good reason, at least not one that would make any sense.

All she could manage was to hiss, “You…you!” and in a moment of impotent frustration she turned around and fled. She knew it was pathetic and she was being childish and he was probably looking at the back of her and sneering that sardonic smile of his that made his mouth twitch… She didn’t care, she just had to get away from him as soon as possible!

Sansa ran to her rooms and sunk into her bed, letting her tears flow. _Why am I crying, why does it hurt so?_ Soon she heard a hesitant knock on the door and heard it opening. She got up quickly and tried to wipe her face, her heart in her throat. She knew it didn’t make any sense but she hoped it was Sandor, following her.

It was not him but Narella approaching her carefully from the doorway. “Sansa, what is wrong? Are you crying?”

Sansa pulled herself together and greeted her. If it was with less warmth than usually, Narella didn’t give any signs of noticing it.

“No I am not - it is nothing, never mind. It is just so quiet here with everyone still recovering from the feast.” Narella looked fresh though, smiling like a cat that had just licked a whole bowl of cream. _She would, would she – after spending a night with…_

“If you are here to tell stories of your last night’s escapades, don’t bother. I am too old for those girlish tales.” Sansa lifted herself off the bed and moved to the solar, seating herself on a small chair by the window and straightening her skirt, trying to appear as dignified as possible.

Narella followed and sat next to her. “Yes, I wanted to come and tell you what happened last night. I think you want to hear it.”

“No, in that you are mistaken. I am not interested in what you and my sworn shield did.” Sansa’s voice was now distinctively cold but she didn’t care.

“Oh but I think you do. You see…nothing happened.” Narella leaned closer and looked at her gravely. “Or at least, almost nothing.”

Sansa’s head snapped up. “What do you mean? Nothing – or almost nothing?”

“Well, we left together, and I did my best to seduce him. We kissed, and I almost got into his breeches…but then he pulled away.”

“Oh.” Sansa didn’t know what to say.

“It was not that he _couldn’t_ have had me – I was close enough, I felt his body and know that he was _noticeably_ aroused. I couldn’t have missed it even had I been on the other side of the room, if you know what I mean. After all, who man could resist this?” She pushed her breasts together, wiggled her body and pouted her lips in a way that made Sansa laugh despite her best intentions to stay cool and detached.

Then Narella became serious and continued, “But he didn’t want me, as there is somebody else he would rather have. I have to say I don’t understand what kind of willpower that man has, but he pulled himself away from me, refused to touch me even though I was there half naked, willing and ready. What a man!”

Sansa looked at her suspiciously. “How would you know why he did it?”

‘Well, I had my suspicions and when I confronted him with them, he as good as admitted it. He only wants you, you silly maiden!” She came to Sansa and hugged her, and Sansa felt herself melting into that embrace.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I told him that you shared what happened on the night of the battle only with me and nobody else. And that you didn’t laugh about it. Sansa, I have seen how you two look at each other. You should talk! When I was coming here I noticed him at the stables – my advice is that you go and see him there.” Narella patted her back.

“Are you…sure?” Sansa sniffed.

“Of course I am sure, you silly maiden.” They embraced each other for a long time while Sansa gathered her thoughts. _He wants…me?_


	9. Confessions

**_Sandor_ **

Seeing Sansa again in the practice yard, leaving so suddenly in a clearly confused state of emotions, didn’t help Sandor’s own disordered state of mind. Why was she so angry?  Did she believe that he had gone with another woman? If she did, that could only mean that she cared what he did, that she _cared._

After returning the arakh to the storage he decided to go the stables and see if he could borrow a horse. A long ride might clear his head.

He was pointed to a strong looking destrier, one of the few in the stables of Sunspear. As strong and enduring as stand steeds were, he didn’t trust them to be able to carry a man of his stature. As he was saddling the beast he saw the little bird approaching. _What now? Is she going to slap me for real?_ He had read her face earlier and knew it had been close.

“Sandor, I thought I could find you here.” _Sandor._ She had never called him by his name. “But oh, are you going for a ride?”

He nodded and feeling bold asked: “Would you care to join me?” adding just a moment later, “My lady.”

Sansa looked at him and didn’t appear nearly as angry as she had earlier. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

In few short moments stable boys had found and saddled her mare, a beautiful sand coloured beast with a graceful neck and long mane. They rode out of the castle together and guided by Sansa, let go at high speed cantering through fields and meadows. Sandor enjoyed the fast pace and the feel of a muscular horse labouring under him, smell of the sea drifting through and the feeling of freedom the ride gave him. Sansa on her mare rode neck by neck with him and he found himself admiring her skills. If he remembered correctly, on the long journey down the Kings Road all those years ago she had travelled in the wheelhouse with the Queen, refusing the ride a horse. How had she changed, in more ways than one!

They rode a long curving arch around the castle, then down to the beach where they galloped along sandy dunes, waves spraying on their wake as they ventured into shallow waves. They didn’t stop for a longest time, both enjoying the ride and the lucidity such physical exertion gave.

Eventually Sansa led them up towards the woods and they started to slow down. She steered them to a place where trees formed a protected enclosure around a small pond, halted her horse and hopped down. Sandor followed her suit and tied the horses loosely on a shrub on one side of the clearing,  where they started contentedly to graze grass.

They hadn’t spoken during the ride, but Sandor felt comfortable about it. Some of the tension between them seemed to have vanished - he didn’t know why and when, but he didn’t care. He was still reeling from what he had heard the previous night; his little bird remembering him with fondness, even imagining kissing him. _His_ little bird – although she didn’t like to be called that anymore.

Without speaking he threw his cloak on the ground next to the pond and sat down. Likewise, without speaking, Sansa sat on it as it would be the most natural thing in the world for a lady to sit next to a man in her service.

The whole situation, as they were contentedly gazing across the pond towards the woods, gave Sandor courage to address her freely. “Lady Sansa, I…”

She interrupted him but smiled as she did so. ‘You can call me little bird if you want. I always liked that nickname you gave me, despite of what I told you earlier.”

Taken off balance he faltered for a moment before getting back to what he wanted to say. “Little bird, I want you to know that I didn’t go with Lady Narella last night. Not that you would care, but I need to tell you that just the same.”

She looked at him almost teasingly. “Oh but I know that you did! Narella herself told me so.”

 _Bloody buggering hells, what has she told her!?_ Women were known to exaggerate their conquests as much as men did, everybody knew that.

Sansa continued, getting more serious. “Sandor…can I call you Sandor?” He nodded mutely.

“She said that nothing happened. That you stopped before things went…too far. And that she told you I never laughed at you or shared what happened between us with anyone but her, as she is my closest friend.”

Sandor nodded, understanding what had caused the difference in her since their previous meeting.

“I have also thought long and hard what you told me earlier, about how I shouldn’t throw my life away to chase my revenge for what was done to me and my kin. I believe you came to this conclusion based on your own experiences.” Sansa turned her blue gaze on him.

“I can’t even imagine what you have gone through, although I know parts of it. If you have learned to let it go and have achieved the peace of mind I can clearly see you have, I think I better listen to your advice. You never gave me bad counsel in King’s Landing and I can’t see why you would do so now.”

Sandor felt relieved. He hoped though that this didn’t mean she wouldn’t need his services anymore. “Little bird, I am glad to hear you say this. You have suffered enough and I don’t want to see you become bitter and resentful.”

She turned her face away from him but after a while continued. “Sandor – is it true that you care about me…more than just as a lady you have sworn your services to?”

 _Where did this come from?!_  He was convinced he couldn’t tell her what he truly felt. It would be futile, as he was still just a son of a minor house and she the heiress of one of the largest houses in Westeros, and the ward of a powerful prince. He swallowed nervously.

 _If I don’t do it now, there will never be another chance. At least I would have told her the truth, no matter what happens after._ He hunched his shoulders and spoke fast under his breath, before he would have time to change his mind.

“Aye, I do care about you, ever since King’s Landing. I know it is wrong and I am condemned for even thinking about it, but you know I hate lying, and you deserve the truth. I feel about you as I have never felt about another woman. But I swear I will not let it affect how I do my duty. If you allow me to stay by your side and defend you against your enemies, I swear myself forever in your service and never mention this again.”

Sandor didn’t look at her but stared at his own hands, clenched into tight fists. He hadn’t moved either – he only wanted the truth to come out and then it was up to her what to do with it.

For a moment nothing happened. _At least she hasn’t slapped me,_ he thought, feeling a nervous tick in the corner of his burned mouth.

**_Sansa_ **

Sansa reeled at the intensity of his words, and what they meant. _He cares!_ She stretched her hand to clutch Sandor’s arm and leaned towards him, inhaling his scent of horse and leather and sweat.

“Sandor, I care for you too. I have dreamt of you so many times over the years, and not only as someone who was once kind to me.”

Sandor lifted his head, so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

“When I thought you were dead I mourned for you. It was different to how I grieved for my family, as with them I had already shared love and life, but with you all I had was a possibility. I lost you before I even _had_ you, and that made my sorrow greater.”

He listened to her intently and she continued, getting giddy of the thought of finally being able to tell him what she felt. “I relived the memories I had of you over and over again, so that eventually I didn’t know anymore what was true and what my imagination. What I _did_ know was that I didn’t want you just as an idealised version built in my head. I wanted _real_ you, with your scowls and hard honesty and bluntness. And…you, as a man.” At that she blushed and hoped Sandor would get her meaning without her having to spell it out. His sudden intake of breath suggested he had.

“When you came here, I was so glad to see you – but then it all went horribly wrong. It was entirely my fault; I was acting a part and trying too hard to impress you.”

At that he reached for her and pulled her towards him. She pressed against him as if she had been moulded for it; her breasts pushed against his chest, her thighs rested against the contours of his and her bottom fitted perfectly into his lap as she sat on it. Her arms were around his neck, his arms around her whole body and they held each other urgently, desperately.

Then Sandor leaned his head towards hers and their lips met. The kiss that ensued was awkward; she didn’t really know what to do and he oscillated between demanding her lips to part with his tongue and then pulling himself slightly back, attempting a chaste close-mouthed kiss again. She knew she didn’t kiss him right – where would she have practised? – but he didn’t seem to care and in her blissful state of mind she didn’t either.

All she could concentrate on at that moment was his embrace that was all she had dreamt of; strong and consuming, soft and caring – as if she had arrived home from the cold. She slid her fingers along his back and took in the feeling of his muscles tensing under her touch, the excitement she felt of being able to _touch_ him like that.

Sansa couldn’t prevent the feeling of joy and pure happiness bubbling in her and started to tremble in his arms, trying to hide it. Sandor released her from his grip and asked anxiously,  “What is it, little bird, am I hurting you?”

Sansa looked up at him and despite her attempts to control herself burst out laughing.  “No you are not - I just clearly don’t seem to know what to do with you now that I have you! Please forgive me! I am sure Narella would have done this much better, had you allowed her!”

Sandor responded to her mirth with a wide grin and Sansa was amazed at how relaxed they both were.

“Don’t you worry little bird, you are doing just fine! Besides, I couldn’t have had her as I was dreaming of _this!_ ” He leaned towards her and kissed her once more. Sansa allowed her lips to part and tentatively greeted his tongue with her own, receiving an exhilarating sensation of being consumed by him, and consuming him in return, as her reward. _Much better this time!_

They stayed like that for a while, but as their most desperate urge to feel, touch and kiss passed, they were content to just hold each other. It might be some time before they would have their next chance, but they knew how they felt about each other and that was enough for the time being. Sansa wanted to remain there longer, but evening was approaching fast and they didn’t want to stay in the woods after dark.

Gradually she shifted and whispered that they better return to the castle. Sandor sighed but acquiesced, lowering her gently on the ground and went to get their mounts. 


	10. Prince Doran’s Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Authors Notes - "First edition":** This was supposed to be a short story, just a quick comment fic – but I seemingly didn’t know how to stop… Writing this was such a hoot!  
>  Sincere thank you for everyone who responded with kind comments! 
> 
> **Authors Notes - "Second edition - after re-editing in February 2013":** After shrieking in horror after re-reading this and seeing all the horrible language I had used in my first attempt on writing, I have tried to fix this to make it a bit more readable... It is still far away from perfect language-wise, but at least I don't shrink in absolute horror when reading it myself. The story hasn't changed...
> 
> Special thanks to babygap430, who commented on the language and prompted me to do this. You see, con-crit is good!!

**_Sandor_ **

They rode back in silence, brushing their hands against each other’s every now and then. Sandor didn’t want to think about what would happen next – he could do that later. He was just happy to think that this exciting, breath-takingly beautiful and intelligent young woman was _his._ And he would be _hers_ , one way or another.

They reached the stables and while they were still dismounting, Sansa’s maid rushed to them.

“My lady, Ser Clegane, Prince Doran would like to see you in his rooms,” the maid blurted. Sandor’s heart stopped for a moment. _How can he know about us already?_ Sansa had a low-toned conversation with the maid and came back to him looking no more worried than before.

“It appears Prince Doran has received several ravens today; he may want to discuss with us about the news they contain.”

They were welcomed by the prince who pointed them to their seats; Sansa to a stately padded chair next to the prince’s rolling chair, Sandor to a lower and simpler stool. However, because of his height he was at eye level with them.

“My dear Sansa, I have received many interesting news lately. In light of your recent request to go to the North to regain your ancestral home I feel I finally have to deal with you candidly and tell you more than I have felt necessary before.”

His eyes were examining them closely. Sandor wasn’t sure he liked where the conversation was heading. _Candidly? More than felt necessary before?_ He kept silent and listened while the prince continued.

“I agree with you that Winterfell has to be taken back from the Boltons. The northerners deserve House Stark to rule them again. I also believe that the weak rule of King Tommen in King’s Landing needs to be quashed. Yet rather than leaving the Seven Kingdoms to the rule of anarchy I want to see them re-united under one powerful ruler.”

He turned his chair to face them squarely. “I suspect you may think that I am proposing myself as that ruler – but you couldn’t be more wrong. I have always believed that we don’t need a new ruler as we already have a rightful house for that. The Targaryens may have been exiled by the usurper Robert Baratheon – but their line didn’t die.”

Sansa drew her breath and Sandor straightened himself in his seat to hear better.

“You must have heard rumours of dragons and Targaryens across the Narrow Sea. Most who hear them dismiss them as wild stories, but they are true. There is not one but two Targaryen heirs in the Free Cities waiting to invade Westeros with three full-grown dragons and thousands of soldiers.”

Prince Doran got more excited as he went on, waving his arms in the air as he spoke.

“Aegon Targaryen is the son of Rhaegar, thought to be killed by your brother Ser Gregor Clegane.” He glanced at Sandor. “Targaryen supporters in court replaced Rhaegar’s son with a son of a servant and whisked the true heir to safety. He has been raised to become a king and is now ready to ascend the Iron Throne. Also, Rhaegar’s sister Daenarys Targaryen, born soon after Robert’s rebellion, has raised three dragons and gathered an army of thousands. They have joined forces and are almost ready to move across the sea.”

Sandor listened in awe. He knew about the rumours of dragons but had dismissed them as fanciful tales. The idea of having one strong family in charge of ruling the Seven Kingdoms appealed to him more than the thought of all of them breaking up to small bickering semi-kingdoms. He had seen too well where such internal fighting could lead.

“What about the North and Winterfell”?” Sansa asked.

“Oh, Winterfell! That indeed has a big role in this great plan. What Aegon and Daenarys need is support from the existing noble houses of the realm. If Winterfell and the North should be ruled by a person supporting their cause, they would be grateful indeed.”

Prince Doran patted at Sansa’s hand. “If you would retake Winterfell, would you support the cause of the Targaryens or would you support the rule of King Tommen – or would you take up the role of Queen in the North for yourself, after your late brother?”

**_Sansa_ **

Sansa knew her family had fought against the Targaryens. She also recognised that she would gladly welcome them back to the Iron Throne if it meant the end of the war devastating her lands. She was sure she didn’t want to be the Queen in the North. That heavy crown was what eventually had killed Robb, no matter if Frey’s had done the actual deed. She shook her head.

“I will never support King Tommen, nor do I want to claim to be Queen in the North. If the Targaryens rule Seven Kingdoms, I will bend the knee as long as they respect the North and grant us same freedoms we have enjoyed since the days of Aegon the Conqueror.”

Prince Doran beamed at her. “That is what I thought you would say, my dear Sansa. You have grown up to be a wise young woman indeed. In light of this, you will be granted the troops you will need from either Dorne or from the Targaryen’s forces, when the time is right. It may be a little while longer, but rest assured that when they come, they will prevail. Three dragons and a vast army of professional soldiers will see that their cause will triumph. Also, you will not be the only ruler in the Seven Kingdoms to accept them.”

To Sandor’s lifted eyebrow serving as much a question as if he had said that aloud, the prince continued. “Iron Islands have no effective ruler at the moment, but the true heir Asha Greyjoy is ready to take charge and support them as soon as she gets back from Pentos. Young Lord Robert Arryn from the Vale has already agreed to support the Dragons for the same price as you, for the old freedoms of the Vale. Dorne, as you can imagine, is strongly behind them. Myrcella and Trystane will take over the Westerlands. The other kingdoms will get new rulers who will submit to them and the Seven Kingdoms will finally get the peace that has been missing for so long.”

Sansa admired the cleverness of her prince. The united realm under one rule, the return of order and peace – that was indeed sorely needed. Yet she wondered where the new situation _truly_ left her.

“Prince Doran, if I may…If I am to take Winterfell as a Stark, am I still supposed to marry some high lord according to your wishes?”

She could feel and see Sandor stiffen next to her. Prince Doran looked at her for a long time, contemplating something only he knew. Finally he answered.

“My daughter Arianne will ascend the throne of Dorne after I am gone. Asha Greyjoy is the next ruler of Iron Islands. Queens Cersei and Margaery – despite their flaws – ruled over Crownlands. I suspect that after Stannis Baratheon is gone, he will be followed by his daughter Shireen in the Stormlands. I can’t see why the North couldn’t be ruled by Lady Stark, with or without a consort. And if she chooses a consort, as long as he is a capable lord who can gain respect of the North, I don’t see why I or anyone else would need to have any say in it.”

At that Sansa lifted from her chair and leaned to embrace the old prince, careful not to touch his swollen joints. “Thank you my prince! I swear I will support the cause of the Targaryens as if it was my own – no, it will be the cause of mine!”

Prince Doran smiled and waved her away. “Go on now child. There will be lots of opportunities to discuss the details later. I just wanted to tell you about the bigger plan and assure you that you will get Winterfell back, eventually. Just be patient.”

Sansa and Sandor left the Tower of the Sun together, still silent and contemplating what they had heard.  As they entered the yard Sansa turned to Sandor and grasped his hand.

“A capable lord who can gain respect of the North. There will be many big houses in need of a lord once the Targaryens come through. Do you think you could manage that?”

Sandor looked at her seriously. “Aye, I think I could manage that.”

Sansa reached towards him then and there, not caring who would see them and embraced him tightly. As their lips met she found herself thinking about the future laying ahead of them – for once bright and open and full of promise.

**The End**


End file.
